


Maternal

by falsechaos



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Frigga, Gen, Jotunheim, Motherhood, Parenthood, Sneaky Frigga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsechaos/pseuds/falsechaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki suffers in the throes of a childhood fever. Frigga desperately hopes there is help to be found and solace to be given. A mother travels to a hostile realm to seek comfort for a sick child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maternal

Snow whispers at Frigga’s throat and she pulls her cloak tighter. The wind is soft here, almost gentle, thin and brittle as the fingers of an old woman at her weaving. Skeins of frost are drawn tight beneath her and crack under Frigga’s feet as she picks her way towards Utgard.

She remembers Jotenheim long ago. She remembers it a realm alive. Not the frozen grave it has become. Some life still flickers here, the last long gasps of a proud realm slouching towards death. Asgard would let itself burn, she knows, throwing its warriors and brave young fighters to the flames as kindling. Asgard would not give itself over to a death such as this, would fight and claw down glory and engrave its immortality to be read in the stars. Asgard stood here. Asgard once was. Jotenheim, she thinks, has found a strange sort of dignity in its acceptance. No bitter surrender or howling its indignities towards the heavens. Only quiet pride and solemn endurance such as only the bitter tundra and decaying glacier would know.

Jotenheim would never regain what it once was.

Frigga wonders, however, if it might yet become something new.

Two of Laufey’s guards meet her before she reaches the city borders. Their faces are blank and craggy as she dips her head to them. They stand and they watch and then fall into silent step beside her. Only one set of footprints trails behind them and Frigga knows the snow and shifting of the ice will soon see to it even that small trace of her is erased. She waits until they are in Utgard proper, until the sharp shattered spires of the city thrust up around her before she speaks.

“I seek an audience with Laufey.”

The guards look to her and then to each other.

Frigga gives them nothing else. They have the patience of stone but she the resolve of desperate motherhood. She meets their crimson gazes with her own. Her thin lips are pressed in a grim line.

One of the guards, the taller, nods once and leaves Frigga alone with the other. Solid, silent steps where Frigga’s, however small and delicate, had left footsteps and echoes behind.

She clasps her hands together in her voluminous sleeves. The cold is a fickle thing here, burning and freezing in equal measure, leaving her numb one moment only to prick and gnaw at her the next. The guard next to her stands in silent repose, massive arms crossed over massive chest, eyes pinned on her. She does not insult the guard with idle conversation or transparent attempts to remain stoic in the wind. She shivers and wonders if her husband would afford himself the same honesty. Frigga hears her guard shift and she glances over her shoulder. The guard’s broad frame stands between her and the wind. She glances up once and nods in thanks and looks ahead to see the other has returned.

“Your audience is granted.” A pause and a show of dark, jagged teeth, a tight rictus grin of bitter amusement. “Queen Frigga.”

Frigga shakes her skirts and loose snow cascades to her feet. Another slight incline of her head, show of deference and respect, and she looks up to a grin that has lost some of that amusement and red eyes narrowed in suspicious confusion. “My thanks.”

She walks ahead and the two guards resume their posts. No need to follow her. She can see the others at the corners of her vision, still and solemn and shifting like shadows in the breeze. Illusions and vespers. Her footsteps echo on naked stone when she reaches Laufey’s court. To the guards, she inclined her head. To Laufey, she bows.

“You have come a long way, Queen Frigga.”

Frigga purses her lips and inclines her head once more. “Indeed.”

She studies Laufey as Laufey studies her in turn. The leader of the Jotun leans back in a wicked throne that is all straight planes and harsh angles. Laufey’s face is equally sharp, high cheek bones and a thin slash of a smile. Nothing soft there, Jotenheim would not tolerate it of her children. No, Jotenheim leaves her children lean and hungry in these growing days of twilight.

Frigga wonders if it would be as such if Laufey still wielded the Casket. She wonders if she would still have her second son.

“Where is my child?” Laufey’s voice rumbles with the crumbling of icebergs, the grinding of glacier against stone.

She flinches. “Loki lies ill. He cannot leave the healers’ room, let alone travel the Bifrost. A fever burns in him. It is… a known thing among our children of Asgard.”

“And yet my child is not of Asgard, correct, Queen Frigga?” The name burns between them unspoken on Laufey’s lips. Loki’s name, true name, the name writ into his lines and his skin, not the one given to him by Odin. Laufey will not speak it.

“Not of birth,” Frigga says softly. “But by choice.” Her resolve does not falter, her conviction does not crack. She clasps her hands together regardless. She is not here as Queen. She is here as Mother. “As he chooses both realms now as his home.”

Laufey digs long fingers into the arms of the throne and Frigga can hear it splinter and crack. “Why have you come here? As idle messenger? Did Odin speak as though he could stay my anger if he sent—”

“Odin says nothing!” Frigga snaps. Guards shuffle around her in the shadows. Here, in Laufey’s court, they are all guards. “For all the sight he gained by sacrifice he does not see this, does not *know* this! He would wait silent at Loki’s side while Loki cries out for another!” Her hands tremble and she curls her fingers into her palms. “Do you think my pride that small?”

Laufey is still and silent as stone.

She swallows hard and still threatens to choke on her own voice. “Loki cannot come to you now. Loki… Your child. Your child is in no danger save that of a painful recovery. He will survive and grow strong and this will be little more than a distant childhood memory for him. But now…” Frigga bows her head. “My touch will still his dreams. But it is not my touch that will soothe him.” She looks up and her eyes burn.

“What would you have me do, Queen of Asgard?” Pride and challenge in that voice, growled heavy and bitter.

There is no room for insinuations, no spaces she can afford to leave bare and open to misinterpretations. “Come to him. Come to him and…” Frigga’s voice breaks into a hoarse whisper. “Do for him what I cannot.”

It is a very long walk back to the Bifrost site.

No guards, no retinue, only the distant ice mirage shadows of Jotun following in Frigga and Laufey’s wake. Laufey’s court stays at the edge of Frigga’s fading footsteps and trail after as though to witness she left no trace behind in this frozen kingdom. She calls up to Heimdall and the sky rips open, bright and resplendent with color. In Asgard, it would be beautiful. Here in this stark land, it is garish and bleeds into the world around it. There is a beauty here, Frigga thinks, as she and Laufey are pulled away from Jotenheim. It is harsh and it is cruel, keen as a blade and just as unforgiving.

But beautiful.

They emerge into Heimdall’s domain, the golden warrior in the golden hub of the Bifrost. Another small incline of her head from Frigga. Respect where it was due. Heimdall had served Bor before Odin and would no doubt serve Thor after. She shakes her skirts once more. The flakes melt before any touch the floor.

“My child.” Even here the growl of Laufey’s voice causes the air to tremble.

Frigga nods. “Yes.”

Her own retinue awaits her outside on the rainbow bridge. They are nervous and skittering things, no doubt scurrying as close to their mistress as they dared after word of Frigga’s departure had spread. Ladies in waiting pluck at her travel cloak and brush at her hair, push a cup of something hot and steaming into her hands. “Enough!” There is kindness behind the rebuke and she knows they surround her only so they can fold her back into the safety of Asgard.

None of them, for all their dedication, can meet Laufey’s eyes.

She forges forward, in her own element once more. She mounts her horse and clicks her tongue and the beast trots forward. The horse is dull and placid where her ladies flutter about like birds behind them. It has carried warlords and berserkers alike into battle against the Jotun on Midgard and pays no mind to Laufey’s steady footsteps beside it. The horse puts Frigga almost level with Laufey. Side by side they march, Frigga’s lips again set in a thin line and Laufey’s face carved in stone.

Her husband’s honor guard meet them when they reach the palace. They are good men, solid men, trustworthy as the horse if not quite so placid in the jostling of their spears and swords. “M-Majesty—”

Frigga dismounts and offers the reins to the captain of the guard. “Tend to my horse, please.”

“Queen Frigga—!”

Frost curls under her feet and Frigga hears a deep rasp of breath behind her. “I think you, kind sirs, for your welcome.” The captain flinches at Frigga’s smile. “So valiantly guarding the palace while my ladies waited to greet me as I arrived.” She offers her reins again, leather warm and worn against her palm. “Captain. My horse. If you will.”

No sound save for a moment save the slow growl of Laufey’s jagged breath and the pattering of feet as Frigga’s retinue finally reaches them. Then guards on one side of them, golden armor gleaming and spears rattling as branches in the wind. The rustle of cloth and the empty silence of withheld words on the other. Frigga and Laufey at the center, frost spreading around them as though Laufey meant to bring Jotenheim into Asgard’s very heart.

The captain takes the reins. “I… Yes. Queen Frigga. Shall I send—”

“No doubt word has already been sent.”

“And the Jotun King—”

“Is my guest.” Her smile is slow and sharp and the captain does not move even when Frigga’s horse pushes its nose against his hand. “Or is your dedication such that you would accuse the queen herself of treason if it meant Asgard’s safety?”

The captain goes pale. “My Queen I meant only— The Allfather said—”

“Of course.” Her smile goes soft, no sign of the blade she had made of her words only a moment previous. “Your loyalty is commended.” She turns and offers her hand to Laufey, reaching up where to anyone else she would extend her hand at the slightest and force them to fill the space between. Laufey stares at her as the guards and the ladies catch their breath between their teeth. Crimson eyes narrow and search Frigga for any sign of mockery or hesitation. Cool fingertips brush against her palm and Frigga inclines her head.

No one else stops them.

Laufey’s footsteps should boom and echo here, she thinks. The crash of ice or the grinding of stone. There is a sound that trails after them past the whisper of her gowns, some slow heartbeat of winter and Jotenheim that follows Laufey even here. It is not the silence of Jotenheim that surrounds them here. Here is not the vastness of space but the emptiness of intent. Breaths sucked in and whispers choked off.

Pages opens doors and guards step dutifully aside. Frigga wonders what thoughts tumble about their minds. What monster is this that walks these halls? What monster is this that would bring such upon this hallowed kingdom? What monster is this that would bring a Jotun dogging her steps into the heart of Asgard? What monster would risk such for a single child?

Frigga stops before the healers hall. For all her rigid defiance this is one holy space she will show due respect to. She sheds her boots still stiff with rime and slush, shakes her skirts one final time. Laufey waits behind as impassive as a mountain. She feels the tension sharp and taut upon the air, the soft and bruised intake of breath before an avalanche bursts forth. She touches her fingertips to her forehead and murmurs a soft prayer that the threads of her son’s fate will yet weave true. She opens the doors.

The healers do not scurry about or shake in stubborn silence. They flow and dart around Frigga and Laufey both like minnows, flowing in front and behind them, parting for them and filling the space left behind. The scent of spring herbs in the air turns to autumn as Laufey passes. There are no lines of wounded warriors to drench the atmosphere with the scent of copper and the sounds of screams. Only a few scuffed students and aching elders. The war is over here as far as the healers are concerned. Now there is only the long rebuilding that shall never leave their halls.

Loki is kept separate from all of them.

As the queen’s son he would have his own private rooms in the healers’ halls regardless, but even in this he kept from the brighter areas where Thor had suffered through his younger fevers, kept instead where it is cool and dark and the air is still. Here the walls are soft gray stone instead of bright burnished metal and here the strong smell of herbs drifts and loses its potency. Here, Frigga feels Loki might be safe, as though hiding him from sight might hide him from his own restless dreams as well.

Odin awaits them before they can cross the threshold. “Frigga, what madness is this?”

Laufey growls behind her.

“I brought Laufey here to see him.” Frigga folds her hands and meets Odin’s direct stare. “Since Loki is unable to travel.”

“No.” It is short and clipped and final. “I will indulge you when I can, my dear, but not this. I cannot in this.”

It is Laufey that has the raw strength to force Odin to his knees. It is Frigga, however, that refuses to be brought to her own. “Does Loki still cry out?” she says softly. “Does he still look past you as he does me?” Her voice is gentle enough to cleave stone, to drown the fires of Asgard that burn in her husband’s eyes. “Who does he call out to, Odin?”

Odin stands stiff and unmoving and to Frigga that rigid pride is as telling as an open flinch. “His father.”

“Enough.” Laufey’s low tone rumbles down Frigga’s spine and she sees Odin clench his teeth and jut his jaw. “I will see my child.”

“The treaty stipulated times of visitation, nothing of illness,” Odin says. He does not look at Laufey, but rather Frigga. “I cannot allow it. Not in his condition. The strain would be too great upon him.”

Frigga steps forward and places a hand on the side of Odin’s neck, fingertips curving over stiff tendon and muscle, palm fitting smoothly into the curve of his shoulder. She brushes her lips over his brow, over the cold edge of the golden patch concealing his missing eye. “We will pass, husband,” she says quietly, and the King of Asgard surrenders to a whisper. He shivers, the barest intake of breath, and steps back into the room.

The room is too large and Loki so small, his green eyes fever bright and poison dull as he stares up at the ceiling. He shivers and clutches heavy blankets against his thin chest and Frigga can hear the rattle of his breath even from the doorway. Odin moves to stand beside him, shoulders drawn back and his hand heavy on Loki’s shoulder. “He is in no danger,” Odin says.

Laufey must duck to enter the room and stands staring at Odin and Loki.

Frigga places a gentle hand on Laufey’s wrist as she steps past.

“Father?” Loki’s voice is dry and brittle.

“I am here, my son,” Odin says and bends low to brush sweaty bangs from Loki’s forehead. He looks at them with something like triumph.

But Loki whimpers and twists and stares out into some unimaginable distance past Frigga, past Laufey, out into some dark void that Frigga has been unable to banish from him. He swallows and tries to cry out, voice silent and weak. He turns his head from Odin’s hand and buries his face against his damp pillow.

Odin touches Loki’s chin and tries to turn the child’s face toward him again. “I am here.” He captures Loki’s hand before he can reach past.

Frigga stands to the side, hands clasped before her again. She wants to whisper to him, wants to sing to him, wants to cradle him close and chase it all away. She grits her teeth and forces her gaze to the foot of the bed. Laufey watches. Of this Frigga has no doubt. Watches that small child shy from Odin’s touch and Odin’s name, still seeking some distant solace his hands are too small to hold. A sob catches in Loki’s throat and is choked down to a hiccup.

The room turns cold and Frigga’s breath wafts misty and formless before her.

“Nál.”

Green eyes focus, grow sharp, squeeze shut. Loki tugs his sweaty hand free of Odin’s. Reaches out, arm trembling and grasping at empty air. “Father?” The name is cast out and away from Odin.

“Nál,” Laufey says again.

Loki reaches for Laufey.

His hand is so small, so fragile, against Laufey’s palm, fingers splayed wide against cool blue skin. All of the icy shadows of Jotenheim whisper down Loki’s arm, creep under his sleeve and up his collar, the lines of his true name, true heritage written upon his skin for all that could read them. His eyes flutter open crimson. His breath slows, steadies.

Laufey tugs Loki’s sleeve and blankets and they burn black with frost and ice until the fabric shatters and falls away. “My child. My Nál. I am here.”

Loki reaches for Laufey then, hands scrabbling at Laufey’s lines, Laufey’s shoulder, until he is held close and he can bury his face against Laufey’s throat. “Father,” Loki sighs.

Frigga takes Odin’s hand in her own. She turns away and lead hims from the room and hears the distant voice of Jotenheim behind them. It is a cold song, a slow song rumbled low in Laufey’s throat, a song of frost and dark places, the quiet spaces where the ice does not crack and the wind does not howl. It is a song of the silence before the fire and fury of birth and the child is still cradled in the flesh. She stops and Odin continues on without her. Frigga dares look over her shoulder.

Laufey’s eyes meet her own.

For all that Loki has named Laufey, for whatever manner Loki has made his choice, Laufey looks at her not with a father’s pride, but a mother’s gratitude.


End file.
